


Happiness, warm gun

by Mariquita



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: F/M, I'm Sorry, M/M, POV Second Person, Spoilers, Voyeurism, poor Angela
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 11:18:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9069265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mariquita/pseuds/Mariquita
Summary: The walls are thin. Angela's awake. She hears someone enter Elliot's room.





	

On nights like this, you almost wish you were back in your apartment. Not the penthouse with the sweeping view of the city—the one paid for by Evil Corp—but the tiny one you shared with that douchebag. It fit like a glove. It was small, cozy, ordinary—a little world where your most-priced possession was an Italian-brand espresso machine you bought at a lower price all because it had a dent on the side. Your life then wasn’t perfect, and you had bills to pay, but at least it was uncomplicated.

But this is a far cry from that, your past life—a 4 by 4 box with gypsum boards for walls. The Dark Army’s “safe house.” You’re suddenly missing the ratty old couch you once had in your living room, the one occupying too much space and where you’d have lazy Saturday sex on, your sweat and tears embedded in the threads. You wonder if it all started there, the night Ollie dropped the bomb. You always knew somehow that he was cheating on you, but you freaked out when you realized that somebody was holding your online information ransom. And you feared the worst. No, it wasn’t really that your bank accounts and credit cards were compromised. You feared that somebody out there knew you clicked on this one photo too many times, each and every day: _you and Elliot smiling by the waterfront._

You pull the thin sheets around you and they scratch at your chin. After all the trouble the Dark Army had gone through to recruit you, this is all they can afford to give you. But you’re not complaining. There are armed guards in the facility, there’s free coffee. No more Darlene and her mad tactics, no more FBI agents. And Elliot. Elliot is just in the other room and the walls are thin. You can hear the faint clicking of his laptop keyboards. You’re safe and he’s safe, and maybe that’s all that matters.

You’re drifting off to sleep or you have drifted off to sleep when you hear a door opening and it’s not yours. You realize how much the sound carries in this place.

“You should knock,” that’s Elliot, and you can almost see him switching tabs on his laptop by impulse.

“What’s the point,” that’s Tyrell. Icy Tyrell. You realize that you’ll never get used to his presence. He was weeping on the phone when he said he loved Elliot and you almost wished you were there in person to see that side of him. He loves Elliot, and maybe that’s all that matters, too. Maybe that is how it will be from now on: you and Tyrell in some sort of orbit around Elliot; you and Tyrell waiting for the other one to crash first.

There’s music all of a sudden. It’s Coltrane and it’s tinny like it’s coming from cell phone speakers. Wellick’s choice, you suppose. Because Elliot will never listen to that stuff. _At least the old Elliot wouldn’t_ , you correct yourself.

“What are you doing?” Elliot again, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Tyrell. “I’m trying to fuck you.”

“What makes you think--” and there is the sound of lips on lips. You picture Tyrell Wellick licking the inside of Elliot’s mouth, and you almost gasp.

You can reach for your headphones. You can bury your head in your pillow. You can get up and leave your room, dawdle in the kitchen for an hour or two or turn the television up in the living room. But you don’t do any of that.

Instead, you try and remember where and when it was that you realized you loved him and it was the day your mother died and you ran away from the room, and the machine was flat-lining and the nurses were running after you. You don't know how, but somehow you managed to get into an abandoned part of the hospital. There were cigarette butts on the wet concrete floor and you were crouched in a corner. _“Angela,”_  you looked up and saw him, Elliot, and it was raining, you hadn’t even realized. His father had died almost a month ago, yet there he was sitting in the dirt beside you, not minding the rain, not minding that you were screaming in his ear that your mother is gone and that she’s not coming back.

“Take this off,” it’s Tyrell again, his voice strained and dangerous, like he’s about to kill something if he doesn’t get what he wants. You suppose Elliot does what he's told and they're both naked now, pressed together skin to skin. You try your best not to get up, smash your fists on the wall, and scream that he’s yours, he’s yours, has always been.

Coltrane’s saxophone fades. A pause. All you hear is breathlessness from the other room. Another song starts playing, also Coltrane, and Tyrell is saying _“Fuck-fuck-you’re-so-tight”_ and it’s punctuated by a pained moan that isn’t Tyrell’s voice. You can't help but picture them together, Tyrell on top of Elliot, pushing into his tight heat. For Elliot's sake, you wish that Tyrell is a considerate lover so in your mind he waits for Elliot to get used to him before Tyrell starts moving deeper. When he does start moving, you can hear the bed springs punctuate every thrust. It's such a cliche you almost laugh so you bring a hand up to your face and notice that your cheeks are wet.

You don’t even understand why you’re crying, and why your other hand is rubbing between your legs all of a sudden. It’s your old couch again at that small apartment, one Saturday morning. Ollie has his head buried in the crook of your neck. He is already moving in and out of you and for a moment you wish it is Elliot fucking you. When you come, you catch yourself halfway through his name and you’re thankful “Ollie” and “Elliot” sound the same.

In the other room, Tyrell’s moans start morphing into something like weeping and gasping but he manages a " _Can I come inside you?_ " and Elliot answers _"Yes."_  Tyrell shouts _"Fuck!"_ soon afterand even Coltrane can't mask that and you know that he’s coming deep inside Elliot, your Elliot, the same one who kissed you in the subway. You didn’t even realize you were holding his arm too tight that night until the doors opened and he broke the kiss. There was a split second you thought of going after him, and telling him that you will run away together to Nepal or Bhutan, somewhere far where nobody knows you, now, right now, and that fuck this, fuck everything, you're done with being good and you're done with everyone else except him; that you’ll change your names, you wanted to say, and invent histories for yourselves (you're a dancer, he's an astronaut and you've been married for twenty years), you will both be happy, finally. But you didn’t say any of these. You turned around too late, the doors started closing and he was nowhere to be seen. You're suddenly alone in the train, like you are alone now in your room. Tyrell has probably wrapped himself around Elliot and you can hear him whispering "I love you." But you loved him first and you know this to be true.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first. It's a mess, I know.


End file.
